9:15 a.m., Sunday
Manhattan
Bending over and trying to point the umbrella into the wind, Laurie slowly made her way up First Avenue. It was hard for her to believe that the weather could change as much as it had in a single day. Not only was it windy and rainy, but the temperature had plummeted during the night to just a tad above freezing. Laurie had taken her winter coat out of its mothballed storage container for the occasion.
Standing on the corner, Laurie vainly waved at the few cabs that streaked past, but all were occupied. Just when she had resigned herself to walking to the office, a vacant taxi pulled up to the curb. She had to leap away to keep from being splashed.
Having finally made significant progress on her paperwork the day before, Laurie was not planning on working that Sunday, yet she felt compelled to go to the office because of a superstitious feeling. It was her idea that if she’d made the effort to go, there wouldn’t be any additional cases in her series.
Stomping off the moisture in the reception area, Laurie unbuttoned her coat and walked through to the ID office. No one was there, and nor was there a schedule for the day’s cases. But the coffee machine was on and someone had made coffee. Laurie helped herself to a cup.
Leaving her coat and umbrella, Laurie descended a floor to the morgue and walked back to the main autopsy room. The lights were on, so she could tell it was in use.
The door creaked open to her touch. Only two of the eight tables were occupied. Laurie tried to recognize who was working. With the goggles, face masks, and hoods, it was difficult. Just when she was about to go into the locker room to change, someone noticed her and, leaving the autopsy table, came over to speak with her. It was Sal D’Ambrosio, one of the techs.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Sal asked.
“I live here,” Laurie said with a laugh. “Which doctor is on today?”
“Plodgett,” Sal said. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem,” Laurie said. “Who’s at the other table?”
“Dr. Besserman,” Sal said. “Paul called him; we got a lot of cases today. More than usual.”
Laurie nodded to Sal, then called over to Paul. “Hey, Paul. Anything interesting?”
“I’d say so,” he replied. “I was going to call you later. We got two more overdoses that can go into your series.”
Laurie felt her heart sink. So much for superstition. “I’ll be right in,” she said.
Once she had changed into her full protective gear, Laurie went to Paul’s table. He was working on the remains of a very young woman.
“How old?” Laurie asked.
“Twenty,” Paul said. “College student at Columbia.”
“How awful!” Laurie said. This would be by far the youngest in her series.
“That’s not the worst of it,” Paul said.
“How so?” Laurie asked.
“Dr. Besserman is doing the boyfriend,” Paul said. “He’s a thirty-one-year-old banker. That’s why I thought you’d be interested. Apparently they injected themselves simultaneously.”
“Oh no!” Laurie felt almost dizzy: as a double tragedy the incident was doubly poignant. She moved over to Dr. Besserman’s table. He was just lifting the internal organs out of the body. Laurie looked at the dead man’s face. There was a large discolored bruise on his forehead.
“He convulsed,” Dr. Besserman said, noticing Laurie’s curiosity. “Must have hit his face on the floor. Or it could have happened in the refrigerator.”
Laurie switched her attention to Dr. Besserman. “This man was found in a refrigerator?” she asked.
“That’s what the tour doctor told us,” Dr. Besserman said.
“That’s the third one, then,” Laurie said. “Where was the girlfriend?”
“She was in the bedroom on the floor,” Dr. Besserman said.
“Find anything special on the post so far?” Laurie asked.
“Pretty routine for an overdose,” Dr. Besserman said.
Laurie stepped back to Paul’s table and watched him slice off several samples of liver.
“What kinds of specimens have you been sending up to Toxicology on these cases?” he asked when he noticed Laurie by his side.
“Liver, kidney, and brain,” Laurie said. “In addition to the usual fluid samples.”
“That’s what I thought,” Paul said.
“Have you found anything remarkable on this case?” Laurie asked.
“Not so far. Certainly consistent with a cocaine overdose. No surprises. But we have the head to go.”
“I hear you have a lot of cases today. Since I’m already here would you like me to help?”
“It’s not necessary,” Paul said. “Especially since Dr. Besserman’s come in.”
“Are you sure?” Laurie asked.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m sure.”
Going through all the paperwork on the cases, Laurie got the names of the victims as well as the male’s address. It had been at the male’s apartment that the bodies had been found. Then she went back to the locker room and changed. She was extremely disheartened. There was something particularly tragic about two young lovers losing their lives so senselessly. She began to regret anew Bingham’s decision not to inform the public about the potentially tainted drug. If he had, those two people might be alive today.
With sudden resolve, Laurie decided to call Bingham. If this Romeo and Julietstyle tragedy didn’t wake him up to the fact that they were potentially facing a major public-health crisis, nothing would.
Upstairs in her office she found Bingham’s home number in the directory. Taking a deep breath, she placed the call.
Bingham himself answered. “This is Sunday morning,” he said crisply when he understood who was on the other end of the line.
Laurie immediately told him about the two new overdose cases. Once she had finished, she was met with silence. Then Bingham said sharply, “I fail to see why you felt compelled to call me about this on a Sunday.”
“If we had made a statement, this couple might be alive today,” Laurie said. “Obviously we can’t help them, but perhaps we can help others. With these cases I now have sixteen in my series.”
“Look, Montgomery, I’m not even convinced you have a bona fide series, so stop throwing the term around as if it’s an a priori assumption. Maybe you have a series, maybe you don’t. I appreciate your good intentions, but have you come up with any proof? Has the lab come up with a contaminant?”
“Not yet,” Laurie admitted.
“Then as far as I’m concerned, this conversation is just a rehash of the one we had the other day.”
“But I’m convinced we can save lives—”
“I know you are,” Bingham said. “But I’m also convinced it is not in the best interests of the department and for the city as a whole. The media will want names, and we are not prepared to give names, not with the pressure we’re under. And it’s more than Duncan Andrews’ family who’d like to keep these cases out of the headlines. But I am meeting with the commissioner of health this week. In all fairness to you I will present the issue to him and he can decide.”
“But, Dr. Bingham—” Laurie protested.
“That’s enough, Laurie. Goodbye!”
Laurie looked at the phone with frustration. Bingham had hung up on her. She slammed the phone down in anger. The idea that he would take the problem to the commissioner was not a consolation to her. As far as she was concerned, it was merely shuffling the problem from one political hack to another. She also felt Bingham had been closest to the real reason for keeping a lid on the series when he mentioned Duncan Andrews. Bingham was still worried about the political ramifications of going public with a connected name.
Laurie decided to give Jordan a call. Since he didn’t work for the city and was beholden to no special group or interest, maybe he could speak out. Laurie wasn’t sure he’d be inclined to get involved, but she decided to chance it. Jordan picked up on the second ring but sounded out of breath when he answered.
“I’m on my exercise bike,” he explained when Laurie asked. “Good to hear from you so soon. I hope you had a nice evening. I know I did.”
“It was lovely,” she said. “Thank you again.” It had been a nice evening and Laurie had been relieved when Jordan didn’t pressure her after that brief, aborted kiss.
Laurie filled Jordan in on the latest additions to her overdose series. To her relief he sounded genuinely upset.
“Now I have a question for you,” Laurie said. “And a favor to ask. The medical examiner is not willing to make a public statement about my series. I want it made because I’m convinced it will save lives. Do you know any other way to get this information to the public and might you be willing to put the word out?”
“Wait a second,” Jordan said. “I’m an ophthalmologist. This isn’t exactly my area of expertise. You want me to make some kind of statement about a series of drug deaths? No way, it’s inappropriate.”
Laurie sighed. “Would you think about it?”
“I don’t need to think about it,” Jordan said. “This is the type of thing I have to stay clear of, pure and simple. Remember, you and I are coming at medicine from the opposite ends of the spectrum. I’m in the clinical end. I’ve got a very high profile clientele. I’m sure they wouldn’t want to hear I’m mixed up in any drug affair no matter which side of the law I’m on. They’d start to wonder about me, and before I knew what was happening, they’d be going to someone else. Ophthalmology is extremely competitive these days.”
Laurie didn’t even try to argue. She understood more clearly than ever: Jordan Scheffield was not about to help her. She merely thanked him for his time and hung up.
There was only one other person to whom Laurie could turn. Although she was far from optimistic about the reception she’d meet there, she swallowed her pride and called Lou. Since she didn’t have his home number, she called police headquarters to leave word for him. To her surprise, he returned her call almost immediately.
“Hey, how are you?” He sounded pleased to have heard from her. “I knew I should have given you my home number. Here, let me give it to you now.” Laurie got a pen and paper and jotted the number down.
“I’m glad you called,” Lou continued. “I got my kids here. You want to come down to SoHo for some brunch?”
“Another time,” Laurie said. “I’ve got a problem.”
“Uh-oh,” Lou said. “What is it?”
Laurie told him about the double overdose and her conversations with Bingham and Jordan.
“Nice to know I’m at the bottom of your list,” Lou commented.
“Please, Lou,” Laurie said. “Don’t play wounded. I’m desperate.”
“Laurie, why are you doing this to me?” Lou complained. “I’d love to help you, but this is not a police matter. I told you that the last time you brought it up. I can understand your problem, but I don’t have any suggestions. And if you want my opinion, it’s not really your problem. You’ve done what you could and you’ve informed your superiors. That’s all you can expect from yourself.”
“My conscience won’t let me leave it at that,” Laurie said. “Not while people are dying.”
“What did big bucks Jordan say?” Lou asked.
“He was afraid his patients wouldn’t understand,” Laurie said. “He said he couldn’t help me.”
“That’s a pretty flimsy excuse,” Lou said. “I’m surprised he’s not falling all over himself trying to prove what a man he is by helping his damsel in distress.”
“I’m not his damsel,” Laurie said. Even as the words came out of her mouth, she knew she shouldn’t be rising to his bait.
“Not always charming, that prince of yours, eh?”
Laurie hung up on Lou. The man could be so infuriatingly rude. She got her things together, including the address of the double-overdose scene, and was ready to go when the phone started to ring. Figuring it was Lou, she avoided answering. The phone rang about twenty times before it stopped just as she reached the elevator.
Laurie hailed a cab and headed for the address on Sutton Place South. When she arrived, she flashed her medical examiner’s badge at the doorman on duty and asked to see the superintendent. The doorman readily obliged her. “Carl will be down in a minute. He lives right here in the building so he’s almost always available.”
A diminutive man with dark hair and a thin black moustache soon appeared and introduced himself as Carl Bethany. “I guess you’re here about George VanDeusen?” Carl asked.
Laurie nodded. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d like to view the scene where the bodies were found. Is the apartment empty?”
“Oh, yeah,” Carl said. “They took the bodies out last night.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Laurie said. “I want to be sure there aren’t any family members up there. I don’t want to disturb anyone.”
Carl said he’d have to check. He conferred with the doorman, then returned to assure Laurie that the VanDeusen apartment was vacant. Then he took her up to the tenth floor and unlocked the door for her. Stepping aside, he let Laurie go in first.
“Nobody’s cleaned in here yet,” Carl said as he followed Laurie through the door. Laurie noticed a musty, almost fishy smell as she entered the apartment.
Laurie surveyed the living room. An antique butler’s-style coffee table with only three legs lay at an odd angle. The fourth leg was on the floor just by it. Magazines and books were haphazardly scattered across the carpet; it looked as if they had been spilled when the leg was broken. A crystal lamp lay smashed between an end table and the couch. A large, old-master oil painting hung askew on the wall.
“A lot of damage,” Laurie said. In her mind’s eye she tried to imagine the kind of seizure that could have resulted in such breakage.
“That’s just the way it looked when I came in here last night,” Carl said.
Laurie started toward the kitchen. “Who found the bodies?” she said.
“I did,” Carl said.
Laurie was surprised. “What brought you in?”
“The night doorman called me,” Carl said.
Laurie was going to ask about him next. She hoped to speak to him, too, and said so. “Why did he call you?” she asked.
“He said another tenant had called him to report strange noises coming from 10F. The caller was worried that someone was hurt.”
“What did you do?” Laurie asked.
“I came up here and rang the bell,” Carl said. “I rang it several times. Then I used my passkey. That’s when I found the bodies.”
Laurie blinked. Her mind was mulling over this scenario, and something wasn’t making sense. She could remember reading an hour earlier in the investigator’s report that both bodies had significant rigor mortis, even the woman in the bedroom. That meant that they had to have been dead at least several hours.
“You said the tenant called down to the doorman because sounds were coming out of the apartment at that time? I mean at the same time he was calling.”
“I think so,” Carl said.
Laurie began to wonder how the other victims in her series had been found. Duncan Andrews and Julia Myerholtz had been found by their lovers. But what about the others? Laurie had never considered the question before now. Now that she thought about it, she did recognize one strange thing: all the victims had been found relatively quickly. Their bodies were discovered in a matter of hours whereas in many cases single people who unexpectedly died in their apartments weren’t found for days, sometimes only after the smell of decay had alerted neighbors.
The scene in the kitchen was all too familiar. The contents of the refrigerator had been strewn helter-skelter across the floor. The refrigerator door was still ajar. Laurie noticed that the smell of spoiled milk and rotting vegetables permeated the air.
“Someone is going to have to clean this up,” Carl said.
Laurie nodded. Leaving the kitchen, she looked into the bedroom. Again she started to feel incredibly sad. Seeing the apartment where these people had lived made them all the more real. It was easier to remain dispassionate down at the medical examiner’s office than it was in the deceased’s home. Laurie felt her eyes well with tears.
“Is there anything else I can do to help?” Carl asked.
“I’d like to speak to that night doorman,” she said, pulling herself together.
“That’s easily arranged,” Carl said. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” Laurie said, gazing around the apartment. “Maybe you shouldn’t let anyone clean this place up just yet. Let me talk to the police.”
“They were here last night too,” Carl said.
“I know,” Laurie said. “But I’m thinking of someone a little higher on the ladder in the homicide department.”
Downstairs Carl got the night doorman’s phone number for Laurie. The man’s name was Scott Maybrie. He even offered to allow Laurie the use of his phone if she wanted to call immediately.
“Wouldn’t he be asleep at this time?” Laurie asked.
“It won’t hurt him,” Carl insisted.
Carl’s tiny apartment was on the first floor and faced the street, in contrast to VanDeusen’s, which had faced out over the East River. Carl allowed Laurie to sit at his cluttered desk amid notes to plumbers and electricians. Being particularly helpful, Carl even dialed Scott’s number and handed Laurie the phone. As she’d feared, the man’s voice was hoarse with sleep when he answered.
Laurie identified herself and explained that Carl had suggested she call. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about the VanDeusen case,” she continued. “Did you see Mr.
VanDeusen or his girlfriend last night?”
“No, I didn’t,” Scott said.
“Carl told me that one of the other tenants called you about noises coming from the VanDeusen apartment. What time was that?”
“Around two-thirty, three o’clock,” Scott said.
“Which tenant called?” Laurie asked.
“I don’t know,” Scott admitted. “He didn’t say.”
“Was it one of the immediate neighbors?” Laurie suggested.
“I really don’t know. I didn’t recognize the voice, but that’s not unusual.”
“What did he say exactly?” Laurie asked.
“He said there were strange noises coming from 10F,” Scott said. “He was concerned someone might be hurt.”
“Did he say they were occurring at the moment he was calling?” Laurie asked. “Or did he say they had happened sometime in the past.”
“I think he said they were happening right then,” Scott said.
“Did you notice two men leaving the building during the night?” Laurie asked. “Two men you’d never seen before?”
“That I couldn’t say,” Scott said. “People come and go all night. To be honest, I don’t pay much attention to people leaving. It’s the ones who are arriving I’m most concerned about.”
Laurie thanked Scott and apologized for disturbing him. Then, turning to Carl, she asked if she could speak to the doorman who’d been on duty earlier in the evening.
“Absolutely,” Carl said. “That would have been Clark Davenport.” Again Carl dialed the number, then handed Laurie the phone.
Laurie went through the same explanation when Clark picked up.
“Did you see Mr. George VanDeusen come into his apartment last night?” Laurie asked after the introductions.
“Yes,” Clark said. “He came in around ten with his girlfriend.”
“Was he behaving normally?” Laurie asked.
“Normal for a Saturday night,” Clark said. “He was a little tipsy. His girlfriend had to give him a little support. But they seemed to be having a good time, if that’s what you mean.”
“Were they alone?” Laurie asked.
“Yup,” Clark said. “Their guests didn’t come in for about half an hour.”
“They had a party?” Laurie asked with surprise.
“I wouldn’t call it a party,” Clark said. “Just two men. A tall guy and a shorter one.”
“Can you remember what these men looked like?” Laurie asked.
Clark had to think about it. “The tall one had bad skin, like he’d had acne as a kid.”
“Did they give their names?” Laurie asked. She could feel her pulse quicken.
“Yeah, of course they gave their names,” Clark said. “How else was I to call up and ask Mr. VanDeusen if they were expected? Otherwise I wouldn’t have let them in.”
“What were the names?” Laurie asked. She’d taken out a pen and a piece of paper.
“I don’t remember,” Clark said. “On a Saturday night I have a hundred people coming in.”
Laurie was disappointed to be so tantalizingly close to a real breakthrough. Although she wasn’t able to get the names, this was progress. Yet again two men were spotted at the scene of the OD shortly before the deaths occurred.
“Did you see these men come out again?” Laurie asked.
“Nope,” Clark said. “Of course, I went off duty not too long after they arrived.”
Laurie thanked Clark before hanging up. She also thanked Carl profusely for all his help before she left the building.
Even though it was ugly and quite cold, Laurie decided to huddle under her umbrella and walk for a bit before catching a cab home. She wanted to mill over what she had learned and what it might mean for the case as a whole.
By far the most significant discovery was the surfacing of these two mystery men. Laurie wondered if the pair was involved in the drug trade. She wondered if this revelation would be enough to get the police narcotics squad interested. She began to hope Lou might feel differently now that more similarities between the cases were falling into place.
Laurie wished she could speak to the tenant who complained of noise. What did he hear and when did he hear it? When it began to rain in earnest, Laurie hailed a cab and headed for home. Over a salad and some hot tea, she got out all the material she had concerning her series and made a new sheet listing the cases in order. She started two columns beside the column of names: “Found by”; “Two Men at Scene?”
She filled in what answers she had. The rest of the afternoon she devoted to filling in the blanks. It meant a lot of legwork, but Laurie knew she had to be thorough if she was ever going to get anyone to believe in her theory.
By late afternoon, Laurie was convinced her efforts had been worthwhile. In each of the scenes the bodies had been discovered by a doorman or superintendent investigating after a neighboring tenant’s complaint of strange noises coming from the deceased’s apartment. With the information on her sheet nearly complete, Laurie headed home convinced more than ever that there was something sinister afoot. There were too many coincidences. Now if only she could persuade someone in a position to do something about it.
By the time she got home, it was dark. She wasn’t sure what her next move should be. Out of curiosity, Laurie opened the Sunday Times to see if the media had picked up the story of the banker and the Columbia coed who’d OD’d. She found a brief mention of the deaths in the depths of the second section. The article made the deaths sound like just another couple of overdoses and made no mention of other demographically similar occurrences in the recent past. Another day, another opportunity to alert the public lost.
Laurie decided to try Lou’s home number. She wasn’t sure she had enough to convince him of anything, but she was eager to give him an update. She got Lou’s answering machine but decided against leaving a message.
Hanging up the phone, Laurie pondered the thought of calling Bingham. Believing it would be an exercise in futility at best, and might get her fired at worst, she gave up the idea. He clearly stated that he intended to do nothing, at least not until he spoke with the commissioner of health.
Laurie’s eyes moved from the phone to the open newspaper. Slowly the idea of leaking the story herself began to occur to her. She’d had a bad experience with giving her opinion to Bob Talbot the last time, but in all fairness to him, she’d not specifically said her remarks were confidential.
With that thought in mind, she got out her address book to see if she had his number. She did, and she gave him a call.
“Well, well,” he said when he heard it was Laurie. “I was afraid I was never going to hear from you again. I didn’t know what else to do beyond apologizing.”
“I overreacted,” Laurie admitted. “I’m sorry I never got back to you. It was just that I got an awful chewing out by the chief over your story.”
“I apologize again,” Bob said. “What’s up?”
“This might surprise you,” Laurie said, “but I may have a story for you, a big story.”
“I’m all ears,” Bob said.
“I don’t want to talk on the phone,” Laurie said.
“Fine by me,” Bob said. “How about I buy you dinner?”
“You’re on,” Laurie said.
They met at P. J. Clark’s on the corner of Fifty-fifth and Third. They were lucky to get a table on a rainy Sunday evening, especially one by the far wall where they could talk above the usual hubbub. After a clear-eyed Irish waiter took their order and slid two brimming draughts in front of them, Laurie began.
“First, I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing talking to you. But I’m desperate. I feel I have to do something.”
Bob nodded.
“I want you to promise me you will not use my name.”
“Scout’s honor,” Bob said, holding up two fingers. Then he took out a note pad and a pencil.
“I don’t know where to begin,” Laurie said. She was hesitant at first, but once she began explaining recent events, she warmed up a bit. She began with Duncan Andrews and her first suspicions and took him through to the double death of George VanDeusen and Carol Palmer. She emphasized that all the victims were single, educated, successful people with no hint of drug use or illegal activity in their pasts. She also mentioned the pressure brought to bear on the medical examiner to keep a lid on the Duncan Andrews case in particular.
“In a way it’s too bad he was the first. I think part of the reason Bingham keeps rejecting my series theory is because the series began with him.”
“This is unbelievable,” Bob said when Laurie had to pause with the arrival of their food. “I haven’t seen anything about this in the media at all. Nothing. Zip.”
“There was a mention of the double death in this morning’s Times,” Laurie said. “But it was in the second section. It got barely a squib. But you’re right, there’s been no mention of the other cases.”
“What a scoop,” Bob marveled. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll have to move on it if I’m going to make tomorrow morning’s paper.”
“But there’s more,” Laurie said. She went on to tell him that the cocaine involved was coming from one source, was probably contaminated with a trace of a very lethal compound on top of being extremely potent, and was probably being distributed by a single pusher who somehow came in contact with upscale young people.
“Well, that’s not exactly true,” Laurie corrected herself. “It might be two people. On most of the cases that I’ve investigated, two men have been seen going into the victim’s apartment.”
“I wonder why two?” Bob asked.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Laurie admitted. “There are a lot of mysteries about this whole affair.”
“Is that it?” Bob questioned. He was eager to leave. He hadn’t even touched his food.
“No, that’s not all,” Laurie said. “I’ve begun to get the feeling that these deaths are not accidental, that they are deliberate. In other words they are homicides.”
“This keeps getting better and better,” Bob said.
“All of the bodies were found shortly after death,” Laurie said. “That in itself is unusual. Single people who die alone are usually not found for days. In all the cases I’ve investigated, a phone call led to the discovery of the body. In two cases the victims called their significant other beforehand. In all the others, an anonymous tenant in the victim’s building called the doorman to complain about strange sounds emanating from the victim’s apartment. But here’s the catch: based on medical evidence, these complaints about noise came several hours after the time of death.”
“My God!” Bob said. He looked up at Laurie. “What about the police?” he asked. “Why haven’t they gotten involved in all this?”
“Nobody buys my series theory. The police aren’t the least suspicious. They consider these cases to be simple drug overdoses.”
“And what about Dr. Harold Bingham? What has he done?”
“Nothing so far,” Laurie said. “My guess is he wants to steer clear of such a potential hot potato. Duncan Andrews’ father’s running for office; his people have really been leaning on the mayor, who’s been leaning on Bingham. He did say he’d talk to the commissioner of health about it.”
“If these are homicides, then we’re talking about some new kind of serial killer,” Bob said. “This is hot stuff!”
“I think it’s important for the public to be warned. If this can save one life, it’s worth it. That’s why I called you. We’ve got to put the word out about the contaminant in this drug.”
“Is that it then?” Bob asked.
“I think so,” Laurie said. “If I think of anything I forgot to mention, I’ll call you.”
“Great!” Bob said, getting to his feet. “Sorry to run, but if I’m going to get this into tomorrow morning’s paper, I’ve got to go directly to my editor.”
Laurie watched Bob weave through the crowd of people waiting for tables. Looking down at her veal swimming in a pool of oil, she decided she wasn’t hungry herself.
She was about to get up when their Irish waiter reappeared with the bill.
Laurie looked after Bob, but he was long gone. So much for his offer to pick up the tab.
“What time is it?” Angelo asked.
“Seven-thirty,” Tony said, checking the Rolex he’d picked up at the Goldburg place.
They were parked on Fifth Avenue just north of the Seventy-second Street entrance to Central Park’s East Drive. They were on the park side of the avenue but had a good view of the entrance to the apartment house they were interested in.
“Must take this Kendall Fletcher a long time to put on his jogging shorts,” Angelo said.
“He told me he was going jogging,” Tony said defensively. “You should have called him yourself if you weren’t going to believe me.”
“Here comes somebody,” Angelo said. “What do you think? Could that be Kendall Fletcher, banker?”
“He doesn’t look like a banker in that getup,” Tony said. “I don’t understand this jogging stuff. Who’d want to dress up in Peter Pan tights and run around the park at night? It’s like asking to be mugged.”
“I think it’s him,” Angelo said. “Looks like the right age. How old did you say Kendall was?”
Tony took a typed sheet of paper out of the glove compartment. Using the map light, he searched for the Kendall Fletcher entry, then read: “Kendall Fletcher, age thirty-four, Vice President Citicorp.”
“That must be him,” Angelo said. He started the car. Tony put the list back in the glove compartment.
Kendall Fletcher had come out of his apartment building dressed to run. He crossed Fifth Avenue at Seventy-second Street and began jogging as soon as he reached the park.
Angelo headed for the East Drive. He and Tony kept their eyes glued to Kendall as he made his way down the Seventy-second Street transverse to the drive, where he turned north into the jogging lane.
Angelo motored about a hundred yards past the man, then pulled over to the side of the road. With the blinkers on, he and Tony got out.
Kendall wasn’t the only runner out on the drive. As Angelo and Tony watched him approach, a half dozen other runners passed by.
“I just don’t get these people,” Tony said with wonderment.
Just before Kendall reached them, Angelo and Tony stepped into the jogging lane.
“Kendall Fletcher?” Angelo asked.
Kendall came to a stop. “Yes?” he said.
“Police,” Angelo said. He flashed his Ozone Park police badge. Tony flashed his. “Hate to bother you while you’re running,” Angelo continued, “but we want to talk to you downtown. We’re involved with a Citicorp investigation.”
“This is not a good time,” Kendall said. His voice was firm but his eyes gave him away. He was definitely nervous.
“I don’t think you want to make a scene,” Angelo said. “We won’t take much of your time. We wanted to talk with the vice presidents before we convened a grand jury.”
“I’m in my jogging shorts,” Kendall said.
“No problem,” Angelo said. “We’ll be happy to give you a lift home and let you change. You can be out jogging in another hour if you cooperate.”
Kendall appeared wary but finally agreed. He climbed into Angelo’s car and they drove back to his building on Fifth Avenue.
Leaving a card on the dash, Angelo and Tony got out of the car with Kendall and followed him into the building. Tony was carrying the old black leather doctor’s bag. They walked as a group past the doorman, who ignored them, got on the elevator, and went up to the twenty-fifth floor.
No one spoke as Kendall opened his apartment door, went in, and held the door for Angelo and Tony.
Tony nodded several times as he viewed the apartment. “Nice layout,” he said. He put down his doctor’s bag on the coffee table.
“Can I get you men anything while I change?” Kendall asked. He motioned toward the bar.
“Nah,” Tony said. “You understand, we’re on duty. We don’t drink while we work.”
Angelo checked out the apartment quickly while Tony watched Kendall. Kendall in turn watched Angelo with confused curiosity.
“What are you looking for?” Kendall called after Angelo.
“Make sure there aren’t any other people up here,” Angelo said as he returned from glancing into the kitchen. He then disappeared back toward the master suite.
“Hey!” Kendall called. “You can’t search my apartment!” He turned to Tony. “You have to have a warrant for this.”
“A warrant?” Tony questioned. “Oh, yeah, the warrant. We always forget the warrant.”
Angelo returned.
“I’d like to see your identification again,” Kendall said. “This is an outrage.”
Angelo reached into his Brioni jacket and withdrew his Walther pistol. “Here’s mine,” he said. He motioned for Kendall to sit down. Tony snapped open the latches on his doctor’s bag.
“What is this, a robbery?” Kendall asked, staring at the gun. He sat down. “Help yourself! Take what you want.”
“I’m the candy man,” Tony said. He lifted a long, clear plastic bag and a small cylinder out of the bag.
Angelo moved behind Kendall, gun in hand. Kendall watched nervously as Tony used the cylinder to inflate the plastic bag with a gas that was obviously lighter than air. Once the bag was completely full, he occluded the end and put the cylinder back in the doctor’s bag. With the plastic bag in hand, he approached Kendall.
“What’s going on?” Kendall demanded.
“We’re here to offer you a wild trip,” Tony said with a smile.
“I’m not interested in any trip,” Kendall said. “Take what you want and get out of here.”
Tony opened the base of the plastic bag so that it looked more like a miniature transparent hot air balloon. Then, holding two sides of the base, he crammed it down over the top of Kendall’s head.
The unexpectedness of the move caught Kendall by surprise. He reached up and grabbed Tony’s forearms and halted the bag at his shoulders. As he tried to stand up, Angelo threw the arm with the gun around his neck. Angelo’s other hand grabbed Kendall’s right wrist in an attempt to free its grip on Tony’s forearm.
For a second the three people struggled against one another. Kendall, terrified at this point, opened his mouth and bit Angelo’s forearm through the plastic bag.
“Ahhhh!” Angelo cried, feeling Kendall’s incisors break his skin. Angelo let go of Kendall’s arm and was about to punch Kendall in the face inside the plastic bag when he saw it wasn’t necessary.
After having taken only a few breaths in the plastic bag, Kendall’s eyelids sagged and his whole body, including his jaws, went limp. While Tony followed Kendall to the floor, maintaining the plastic bag in position, Angelo got his arm back.
Quickly Angelo undid his cuff link and pulled up his sleeve. On the inside of his forearm, about three inches from his elbow, was an elliptical ring of puncture wounds corresponding to Kendall’s dentition. A few of them were bleeding.
“The bastard bit me!” Angelo said indignantly. He put his gun into its shoulder holster. “In this line of work you never know what the hell is going to happen.”
Tony stood up and went back to the doctor’s bag. “Every time we use that gas, I’m amazed,” he said. “Old Doc Travino sure knows his stuff.” He got out a syringe and a piece of rubber tubing. Returning to Kendall, he used the rubber tubing as a tourniquet. “Look at these veins, will you!” he said. “God, they look like cigars. No way we can miss these. You want to do it or should I?”
“You do it,” Angelo said. “But you better get that bag off his head. We don’t want another Robert Evanstype screw-up.”
“Right,” Tony said. He worked the plastic bag free, then shook it out. “Ugh,” he said. “I hate that sweet smell.”
“Give him the coke, will you?” Angelo said. “He’ll wake up before you’re finished.”
Tony took the needle and pushed it into one of Kendall’s prominent veins. “There, what did I tell you?” he said, pleased to have scored on his first try. He pulled off the tourniquet, then pushed in the plunger, emptying the syringe into Kendall’s arm.
Tony left the used syringe on the coffee table and put the rest of his paraphernalia back into the doctor’s bag. At the same time he took out a small glassine envelope. Going back to Kendall, he poured a small amount of the white powder into Kendall’s nostrils. Then he dabbed a little onto his thumb and snorted it. “I love leftovers,” he said with glee.
“Stay away from that stuff!” Angelo commanded.
“Couldn’t resist,” Tony said. He put the glassine envelope next to the used syringe. “What do you think, into the fridge with him?”
“Let’s skip it,” Angelo said. “I was talking with Doc about it. He says that as long as the body’s not out longer than twelve hours we’re okay. And the way we’ve been working this, everybody’s been found way before twelve hours.”
Tony looked around. “Did I get everything?”
“Looks good,” Angelo said. “Let’s sit down and see how Kendall likes his trip.”
Tony sat on the couch while Angelo sat in the armchair that Kendall had been occupying.
“Nice apartment,” Tony said. “What do you say we glance around a little to see if there’s anything we might want to pick up?”
“How many times do I have to tell you: we don’t take anything when we do these drug trips.”
“Such a waste,” Tony said wistfully as he surveyed the room.
A few minutes later, Kendall stirred and smacked his lips. Moaning, he rolled over on his stomach.
“Hey, Kendall, baby,” Tony called. “How you feel? Talk to me!”
Kendall pushed himself up to a sitting position. He had a blank expression on his pale face.
“How is it?” Tony asked. “With as much snow as you got coursing through those veins, you must be in heaven.”
Without any warning, Kendall vomited onto the rug.
“Oh, God!” Tony cried as he scrambled out of the way. “This is disgusting.”
Kendall coughed violently, then looked up at Tony and Angelo. His eyes were glazed. He looked confused.
“How do you feel?” Angelo asked.
Kendall’s mouth tried to form words, but the man seemed utterly incapable of them. Suddenly his eyes rolled back so that only the whites were showing and he began to convulse.
“That’s our cue,” Angelo said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Tony picked up the doctor’s bag and followed Angelo to the door. Angelo peered through the peephole. With no one in sight, he opened the door and stuck his head out.
“Hallway’s clear,” he said. “Come on!”
They exited the apartment quickly and ran to the stairwell. Descending a single floor, they relaxed and waited for the elevator.
“Are you hungry?” Tony asked.
“A little,” Angelo said.
To avoid being seen by the doorman, they got off the elevator on the first floor and returned to the stairwell. They exited the building via the service entrance.
Arriving at the car, Angelo stopped. He was astonished. “Look at this!” he said. “I can’t believe it. We got a ticket. Some nerve. I hope the cop who gave us this never tries to bring his car out to Ozone Park.”
“So what’s next?” Tony asked as soon as they were seated in the car. “Another job or dinner?”
“I don’t know what you like more,” said Angelo, shaking his head, “whacking or eating.”
Tony smiled. “Depends on my mood.”
“I think we should do the other hit,” Angelo said. “Then when we stop to eat it will be just about the right time to call back here to tell the doorman about noises coming from 25G.”
“Let’s do it,” Tony said. He sat back. With his snort of cocaine, he felt great. In fact, he felt like he could do anything in the world.
As Angelo pulled away from the curb, Franco Ponti put his own car in gear. He allowed several cars to pass before pulling out into Fifth Avenue traffic. He’d watched while Angelo and Tony picked the jogger up in the park and escorted him back to his apartment. Although he hadn’t been privy to what had transpired in the apartment, he thought he could guess. But the real question wasn’t what had happened, but why?